The Janus Man tac-4

  The Janus Man

  ( Tweed and Co - 4 )

  Colin Forbes

  The Janus Man

  Colin Forbes

  Prologue

  East Anglia in July. 2 a.m.

  Carole Langley walked by herself along the lonely road elevated above the surrounding flatlands of the Wash. She was half a mile from the village of Plimpstead.

  It was a warm night, a cloying warmth. The moon had come out from behind the cloud bank, illuminating the deserted fields on either side stretching to the dim horizon. Eighteen years old, an attractive blonde, Carole felt a little nervous. The stillness of the flatlands seemed to hold a hint of menace.

  `All right,' she had told her boy friend, Rick, 'if that's what you want you'd better look elsewhere. And, no thanks, I'll get home by myself…'

  `Please yourself,' Rick had told her, his voice slurred with a little too much liquor. 'Girls are like buses. There's always another one coming along. I might even find one inside…'

  Saying which, he'd gone back into the old house where the party was still in full swing. When she'd accepted the invitation Carole hadn't known Peggy's parents were away, that the young crowd would have the house to themselves. The trek to the bedrooms had started early.

  And I'm bloody sure some of them were on drugs, she told herself as she trudged along the road in high heels. She wished now she'd brought walking shoes in a bag. But how was she to know it would end like this – letting Rick bring her back in his car had definitely not seemed a good idea. Not along these deserted roads where the distance between houses – let alone villages – was measured in miles.

  She saw the car coming a long way off. It was incredible the distance you could see across the Wash. Two headlights not dipped – like a couple of monster eyes. Impossible to identify the make of car.

  The road – like all roads in that part of the world – curved and changed direction frequently. Sometimes she saw the powerful beams broadside on, then the car would swing round a curve and the monster eyes, gradually growing larger, would stare straight at her. The pallid light of the moon began to fade, moving behind the clouds. The lights of the car grew stronger.

  Who could be out by the Wash at this hour? Most people would be in bed. Even back where I came from, she thought savagely – and they could keep that. My mum will kill me, she worried as the ache in her feet grew worse. She'll be waiting up. Of course! And when she didn't hear the sound of a car stopping she'll want to know what happened. I'll tell her Rick's car wouldn't start. That's it…'

  She felt better for a moment, but only for a moment. The oncoming vehicle was beginning to bother her. She walked slowly past an isolated copse of trees and wondered whether to hide until the car had passed.

  Damnit, I've got to get home. It will probably just drive on past me…'

  The headlights came round the last bend and headed down a straight stretch of road towards her. She paused, remembering the copse of trees. The only hiding-place for miles. He must be able to see her now. The bloody lights were glaring full on her face. Why didn't he dip them?

  She stopped, made up her mind, slipped off her shoes and prepared to run back to the shelter of the trees. Moving at speed, the driver rammed on the brakes, halted a few feet from her. In the glare of the lights she couldn't see what was happening – but she heard the sound of a car door opening and closing. The sound of footsteps approaching with a steady, purposeful tread.

  She waited no longer. She turned and ran for the copse, feet flying over the smooth road surface. Behind her the steady footsteps followed. As she ran she fumbled in her handbag for the torch she always carried. It was some kind of a weapon.

  She turned off the road, clutching handbag in one hand, torch in the other. She had the sense not to switch it on – that would make it easier for whoever was coming to spot her route. The precaution was her undoing.

  Her left foot caught in the root of a tree and she sprawled on the grass full length. Spinning to one side, she lay on her back and switched on the torch, aiming it upwards. That was when she began to scream.

  In the torchlight she saw the blade of the huge knife. Saw it as it descended towards her breasts in a powerful arc. Like some madman performing a ritual sacrifice. The knife entered her body and was drawn downwards, like a butcher carving meat. The scream died to a moan of horror. Then Carole Langley died and the heavy silence of a Norfolk night also descended.

  That was two years earlier. The importance of the macabre event was not realized. Not until two years later by a man called Tweed.

  Part 1 Suspicion

  One

  Summertime in Regent's Park. Like being in the country, Monica thought as she walked with Tweed. Their feet treading the soft grass, the sound of children's voices as they played. All was right with the world. But it wasn't.

  Tweed walked with hands thrust inside jacket pockets, staring straight ahead through his glasses. She knew what that meant. A crisis. Tweed was disturbed. His first words confirmed her insight.

  `For the first time in ages I'm frightened, really frightened.' `Ian Fergusson's murder in Hamburg?'

  `That, of course. The time for mourning comes later.' A grim note in his quiet voice. 'The implications behind the murder are what scare me stiff.'

  `Explanation?'

  She linked arms with him, expressing sympathy, support.

  `Only six people in the world knew Fergusson was en route for Hamburg. The two of us.' He paused. 'Hugh Grey, Guy Dalby, Harry Masterson and Erich Lindemann.'

  `You can't mean one of the sector chiefs? They've all been with us for years…'

  `Which makes it more serious still. The greatest crisis we've ever faced.'

  `Somebody had left the minutes file drawer in Central Registry unlocked. Anyone in the building could have sneaked a look at the file recording the decision to send Fergusson…'

  `Camouflage.' Tweed's tone was bitter. 'I wrote the minutes of that meeting. I omitted all mention of the decision. There was no reference to Fergusson going anywhere at all…'

  `Strictly against the regulations,' she twitted him, seeking a lighter mood.

  `And done quite deliberately – to protect Fergusson…'

  'Why?'

  `I don't know,' Tweed confessed. 'Some sixth sense. The fact remains. Anyone checking the file wouldn't know a damned thing about the Hamburg assignment. Clearly someone left the file unlocked to cover themselves. They must have been disturbed – maybe by a cleaner, They obviously never had time to read the minutes.'

  `It's still hard to believe…'

  `The most deadly things in life are…'

  `Why are you so sure whoever unlocked the cabinet was disturbed?'

  `If he'd had time to read my minutes he'd have locked it again – realizing his attempt at camouflage hadn't worked.'

  `It's a pretty bloody creepy thought – an enemy inside the citadel. What are you going to do? Does Howard know?'

  `I said six people. Howard was away in France at the time, which is why I chose that moment to despatch Fergusson. I'm going to Hamburg myself,' Tweed added casually.

  He unlinked her arm, took his hands out of his pockets and walked faster. She knew his mind was churning the problem, working out the angles. She waited a few minutes before she posed her next question.

  `Secretly, you mean? Without letting anyone know?'

  `On the contrary. I'm calling a full meeting of all sector heads to announce the fact. Fergusson's murder is a tragedy. But that comes second to tracking down the fly in the ointment.'

  Typical of Tweed to reduce such an appalling prospect to an everyday cliche. Monica was equally appalled at his strategy.

  `You're telling them – knowing one of them will pass it o
n that you're going to Germany?'

  `Which is the object of the exercise – to try and find a lead to the identity of who caused the death of Ian Fergusson.'

  `Isn't this trip going to be very dangerous?' Monica queried. She was careful to keep the anxiety out of her voice as they wandered back towards Park Crescent. The green of the park spread away on all sides. No scene could have been more peaceful, she thought: such a contrast to what they were talking about.

  `So the PM thinks.' Tweed turned down the corners of his mouth. 'You'd think I'd accepted Howard's job the way she clucks over me like her pet hen…'

  `Why did you turn down her offer? You'd have run the outfit far better than Howard ever will.'

  `Because I had to deceive – almost betray – too many of my staff when I was involved in the Adam Procane business.' He went on speaking quickly as though he found the topic distasteful. 'You won't believe the condition she laid down before she sanctioned my going…'

  `Try me…'

  `I have to take a bodyguard with me. A bodyguard! I was forced to accept to get permission.'

  `Who is coming with you – and I'm jolly glad she did insist…'

  `Bob Newman. He's got ideal cover – being a foreign correspondent. He can turn up anywhere and people assume he's after some story. The PM still wanted all background details about him before she consented. I think what did the trick is that he once had SAS training – the complete works – to do a story on them.' Tweed checked his watch. 'He should be landing at Heathrow just about now on his way back from Paris…'

  `He disappeared for quite a while after the Helsinki thing. What has he been doing with himself?'

  `Brooding, I gather – brooding over his wife's murder by the GRU. Maybe he's had an affair or two. I hope so – but I doubt it. He is in a bitter mood. Sounded cold and remote when I spoke to him over the phone when he reached the Paris Embassy. He accepted the job at once. Which surprised me…'

  `Probably the perfect bodyguard…'

  `And he will carry a gun, which I don't much like. The PM's idea again. The German people in Bonn have agreed. They're issuing a special weapons permit. Kuhlmann of the Federal Police fixed it. He's worried about the killing of Fergusson. He thinks there's more behind the murder than has come to light. I really wish I was just going on my own. I hate fuss.'

  `And now?'

  They had left Regent's Park and were waiting to cross the road to Park Crescent, the Georgian scimitar-shaped curve of buildings, one of which houses the SIS HQ.

  `Now,' replied Tweed, 'we set up the meeting of sector chiefs…'

  ***

  Which one?

  Tweed sat at the head of the long table in the conference room, looking at his four colleagues – seated two to a side – while they waited for him to open the proceedings of the emergency meeting he had called.

  Not a man with less than fifteen years' service. Now he felt he no longer knew them at all. One of these men-friends as well as colleagues he had regarded them – had sent Ian Fergusson to his death in Hamburg. The loyal Scot he could always count on. Tweed felt a sudden revulsion.

  One of the waiting faces was a mask. A carefully contrived personality built up over the years to hide his true role. His true purpose in life. Treachery. Which one, he asked himself again?

  He cleared his throat and four pairs of eyes watched him.

  `Gentlemen,' he began, 'I am leaving for Hamburg. I have taken over personally the investigation into the death of Ian Fergusson.'

  He paused, checking their reactions. His tone was matter-of- fact. Like a man discussing a routine piece of business.

  `There is more to this affair than has come to light…'

  Again he paused, looking at each man in turn. He could detect no clue in their expressions – but that he hadn't expected. It was Hugh Grey who responded first, sector chief for Central Europe.

  `Who will be in charge while you're abroad?'

  Was there a hopeful note in his question? Grey, thirty-nine, was the youngest. Slim in build, he had recently remarried for the second time and his main residence was a farmhouse in Norfolk. He also had a tiny pied a terre in Chelsea.

  Clean shaven, he had darkish hair and a pink baby face. He gave the impression of being a lightweight, a man who could talk a lot and say very little. Very self-assured, ambitious, physically restless, his easy manner concealed an alert brain and a ruthless dedication to his own self-interest. And he had a way with women, a certain type of woman. The opposite sex found him either charming or they detested him.

  `Howard,' Tweed replied. 'Due back from Paris tomorrow to take up normal duty…'

  `You're travelling alone to Germany?' Erich Lindemann enquired.

  `Yes,' Tweed lied promptly.

  There, it had started already. The web of deceit with his closest colleagues. Rather like Procane all over again. But this time there was a difference, Tweed reminded himself. He was beginning what could be a long and dangerous search for the odd man out sitting at this very table.

  `Is that wise?' Lindemann pressed. 'After what happened to Fergusson?'

  Erich Lindemann. Forty-eight. Head of the Scandinavian sector, which included Denmark. Known to the others – behind his back – as The Professor. A thin-faced man who looked older than his years – the dark grey hair also thinning. Dry in appearance and manner, unlike Grey he used words sparingly.

  Born in Copenhagen, his mother had died early and his father remarried an Englishwoman. Brought up in Britain since he was ten years old, his accent had not a trace of his Danish origins. He was, Tweed considered, the most cautious of the four men. Only when all the ground work had been laid would he move – then he moved with the speed of light. An austere bachelor, he had been compared by Howard to Field Marshal Montgomery.

  `Never tasted a decent claret in his life,' Howard had once summed him up.

  `That would help him in his work?' Tweed had enquired. `You know what I mean. Bloody brain-box and cold as ice. Like a grand master of chess, our Erich…'

  Harry Masterson shot his cuffs clear of the sleeves of his dark blue business suit and waved a hand as he spoke.

  `Presumably while you're checking out Fergusson we all carry on as usual? I'm due to leave for Vienna, as you know. My people get slack if I'm not there to boot their asses.'

  `Business as usual,' Tweed agreed. 'You get off to Vienna as planned…'

  Masterson. Forty-six. A head of hair as black as coal, neatly brushed with a centre parting. A large head, strong features, a commanding personality. A snappy dresser with a string of girl friends. Divorced by his wife when caught in a position which could hardly be described as a compromise. Impatient, he was the dominating character among the five gathered round the table. Chief of the Balkan sector.

  `Good hunting in Hamburg,' he wished Tweed. 'Get the bastard who fixed up poor Ian. You will, of course…'

  `We'll have to see,' Tweed said. 'And unless there are some questions I propose closing this brief meeting.'

  He glanced at Monica, who sat silent at a small table by the wall, pencil poised over her notebook from which she would later prepare the minutes of the meeting. It was a role she took over when Tweed wanted no distraction. But her main reason for being there this time was quite different.

  Tweed looked at Guy Dalby who so far had not contributed a word. A reserved man of forty-four, chief of the Mediterranean sector, he had a compact frame and his dark brown hair looped over his forehead in a cat-lick. He spoke now, terse and to the point.

  `What do you think was the motive behind Fergusson's murder?'

  `No idea. That's what I'm going to find out…'

  Tweed rose from the table, pushed his chair under it and made the announcement in a casual tone.

  `Before you go about your normal duties I'd like to see each of you in my office later this morning. Separately, please.'

  It was a faint hope – that in private conversation he might notice something about one of them which seemed
out of place. A very faint hope indeed.

  Two

  Bob Newman flew into Heathrow aboard Flight AF 808 from Paris. He liked the Airbus – you had plenty of space. The stewardess watched him as he unfastened his safety belt. She wouldn't have minded going all the way with the Englishman.

  In his early forties, she guessed. An easy manner, a strong face but the eyes and the mouth hinted at a sense of humour. He would, she was sure, have been fun. He nodded to her as he left the aircraft and walked up the narrow corridor towards Arrivals.

  It felt strange – setting foot in England again for the first time in a year. The memory of his late wife, Alexis – killed by the Russians in Estonia, a faraway nowhere place on the Baltic – flooded back. The pleasant side of a marriage which had gone sour, which had been on the verge of the final break-up, filled his thoughts as he went through Passport Control.

  The seated official looked at him twice. He had been recognized. Well, he was used to that. You couldn't become one of the most successful foreign correspondents in the world with your photo plastered across God knew how many papers and not expect recognition. Something he could do without.

  Settled inside a taxi on his way to his flat at Chasemore House in South Ken, Newman's relaxed expression changed. He gazed out of the window grimly. A wasted year of his life, drifting round Europe, never able to settle anywhere for long, refusing to take on any of the many assignments offered.

  So why had he taken on this weird job of acting as bodyguard – for God's sake! – to Tweed? Because it might give him a chance to do damage to the other side? Newman didn't ever delude himself – it was because the offer gave him a purpose in life.

  He didn't like the fact that he would be carrying a gun. A crack shot – the SAS had seen to that – Newman had never shot a man in his life. Not yet, he thought bleakly.

  Also the job intrigued him. He liked Tweed, admired him as a real pro. He'd worked with him before more than once. Why, he wondered, had Tweed himself accepted the idea of protection? It was out of character. As the cab carried him closer to his flat, all that Newman knew of what lay before him was they were going to Hamburg. Had something happened there already? Well, he'd find out soon enough.